Much of which, as it came
in broken syllables from the lips of the disconsolate daughter, the
mother put to the account of the fond dreams of a mind put out of joint
by the worst form of misery incident to young women. But what availed
explanations, mysteries or no mysteries, where the fact was patent that
Mysie Craig lay there, the poor heartbroken victim of man's perfidy--her
powers of industry broken and useless--the fine weaving genius of her
fancy, whereby she wrought her embroidered devices to deck and adorn
beauty, only engaged now on portraying all the evils of her future life;
and above all, was she not soon to become a mother?
Meanwhile, and in the midst of all this misery, the laid-up earnings of
Mysie's industry wore away, where there was no work by those cunning
fingers, now thin and emaciated; and before the days passed, and the
critical day came whereon another burden would be imposed on the
household, there was need for the sympathy of neighbours in that form
which soon wears out--pecuniary help. That critical day at length came.
Mysie Craig gave birth to a boy, and their necessities from that hour
grew in quicker and greater proportion than the generosity of friends.
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